


Dire Portents

by ODeorainFan2150



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Forgotten Relationship, Junkenstein's Revenge, Mention of Hanging, banshee!Moira, summoner!Symetra, witch!mercy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 14:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16243796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ODeorainFan2150/pseuds/ODeorainFan2150
Summary: As Halloween approaches, The Witch of the Wilds moves to gain more allies.





	Dire Portents

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this when Moira's new skin was revealed.
> 
> I needs it

It was October. The dark nights were beginning to grow longer, the barren trees casting creeping shadows under the light of the waxing moon. The wind blew cold and howled through the eaves, the promise of winter just around the bend. However, this was not the reason why the folk of Adlersbrunn found themselves shivering at night, hiding away in their homes and jumping at noises on the roof. No, they were hiding from what they knew must be coming - the return of the Witch of the Wilds.

Over the years, many villages surrounding the mighty town had been abandoned, fleeing their homes and farms in order to seek their fortune or to escape the attention of the Witch and her minions. In many cases these settlements simply failed, leaving behind buildings to collapse or become the homes to darker things. But one village, in particular, had gained a reputation amongst travellers as somewhere to avoid. Every inn warned about the village of Smaragdgrün-Dorf, telling coaches to speed past lest they attract the attention of whatever lurked within the ruins.

On this night though, two figures were exploring the ruins. One seemed to glow with an internal fire, horns jutting from her dark skin, her golden eyes illuminating the darkness. The Summoner seemed uninterested in the whole affair, simply watching as the other figure led the way.  In contrast, the Witch was carefully making her through the undergrowth, scanning as they entered the village boundary for signs of what she sought.

The Summoner snorted, smoke erupting from her nose. “Why have you requested I join you out here Witch? It is ill luck to leave my hoard for too long, especially with the hunters nosing around.”

The Witch of the Wilds turned to her, blue eyes shining in the darkness under her hat. “Calm yourself. I must meet with someone. And unfortunately, our last parting was less than amicable. I may need your strength to aid me in case she decides to fight.”

The Summoner shrugged “So why not bring the Reaper? He seems like your obedient dog when force is required.”

The Witch waved her hand dismissively. “His skills and loyalty go far but even he would be outmatched against this foe. Now stand back for a moment, I must perform this ritual carefully.” She continued striding into the village centre, before coming to a halt in front of the market cross.

Most of the settlement was nothing more than burnt wood and fallen stone, the life having left this place long ago, but this stone edifice was almost immaculate. The carvings were still deep, crafted by the hand of someone from across the sea, looking like cords of rope intertwining across the circular elements. The Witch couldn’t help but run her fingers over the surface, her eyes closing briefly as she remembered the first time she had come this way and felt this pattern beneath her fingertips. For a moment she could feel the pressure of another’s hand on top of her own, the sensation of breath on her cheek. But then the moment was gone and she was back, the cool night around her, a great task still ahead.

Positioning herself carefully, the Witch began her arcane ritual. She sketched out a circle around the stonework with chalk, gingerly placing bags of spellcasting elements at specific points. Moving slowly to avoid disturbing anything, she pulled a simple dagger from her belt and pressed it to her open palm. A few drops of blood fell onto the white ring below before she smeared a streak onto the stone itself, the red quickly darkening against the pale surface.

Stepping back, The Witch now pulled an old and worn book from about her person, it's cover marked with three interlocking rings embossed into it, catching the light of the moon on its surface. Finding the right page, she began to chant, her tongue easily speaking the words as it was her own. The Summoner could tell this was not the magic that she knew personally, lacking the guttural sounds that personified her school. However, she could feel it’s power, it’s force plucking at the edge of her being, finding the gaps between the human she had once been and the dragon she was becoming.

To her side, The Witch was still chanting, her eyes alight with a sickly green glow, the ground beneath her covered in veins that broke through the surface and illuminated their surroundings. Lit from underneath, The Summoner could see shadows forming across her face - she had always appeared unnaturally young and beautiful but now the mask was starting to slip, the creature within her coming to life as she wielded her powers.

The cross, once only pale stone, was now covered in a bright purple set of cracks that snaked all across the surface. Their brightness seemed to increase in intensity until, with a howl, the stonework shattered, sending lumps of masonry flying through the air like bullets.

A thick fog had fallen by now, it's tendrils almost clutching each of them as they tried to get their bearings after the blinding flash. The Summoner pulled a ball of fire into her hands, willing her creation to illuminate the darkness. Instead, it sputtered into smoke, barely able to hold its form against the dark magic that surrounded it.

Undaunted, The Witch tapped her staff twice on the hard ground and spoke in a commanding voice “Banshee! Queen of the night and foreteller of fates! I come to call you to my service, as was promised many moons ago!”

A low laugh seemed to echo around the village, soft but perfectly clear to both of them. It almost felt like the very air was amused at their impertinence. Yet nothing moved - the fog was still. No monstrous creature stirred.

The Witch tried again “Banshee! Heed my summons! Come to me!”

This time, there was silence. And then The Witch felt someone breathing on her face. She dared not turn but could see out of the corner of her eye, a purple glow casting light upon the ground, growing brighter as a form moved closer and closer.

A voice, quiet but penetrating, whispered in her ear. Only to her, it felt like it echoed in the void that was once her soul.

“Oh foolish Witch, you must truly be desperate if you have chosen to release me from my prison.”

The Summoner turned and suddenly saw the figure standing behind her mistress, it’s long hands resting on The Witch’s shoulders.

The newcomer was tall, almost impossibly, filling the darkness with her form. Her body seemed grey, the tattered remnants of a dress clothing her form. A purple glow surrounded her body, casting shadows about her that she seemed to mingle with at her edges. Most striking of all was her face - two glowing featureless eyes, a strange set of markings leading down to gaunt cheeks and long grey hair that was slowly drifting in an ethereal breeze despite the stillness of the night. She felt ancient, something of a different magnitude to the other magical creatures she had encountered previously.

With a snarl, the Summoner lunged toward this outsider, her hands shifting into talons, her eyes burning with rage. However, she had barely left the ground when she felt herself stop, frozen in mid-air by a hand twist from the spectre before her.

The Banshee whispered again “I see your company hasn’t improved since you imprisoned me, Witch.” She moved closer to the frozen dragon, running one hand over the scales. The Summoner could feel the touches, ice in her veins compared to the fire that filled her.

“Clever to bring someone new, especially one like this. I can feel the dragon’s blood raging in her but she is not yet ready to assume her true form and take flight.” The Banshee clicked her teeth, the sound echoing around the square.  “A pity, I would have enjoyed a challenge.” She waved her fingers and the Summoner fell to the floor, locked in place and unable to move against the Banshee’s curse.

By now the Witch had recovered and swung to face her tormentor, the wooden staff held out in front of her like a spear. Rage swept through her, trying to bend this apparition to her will through sheer magical force alone. Her hair had come loose, the excess magic in the air causing it to swirl about her face. The effort was starting to affect her, it’s colour starting to tarnish from its usual gold.

She almost screamed her commands, packing each word with more and more power “Banshee, you will obey me. You know what was promised to me when I pulled you back from the torment!”

The Banshee laughed, her voice still never climbing above a whisper. Instead, she disappeared for a moment, reappearing behind the Witch and placed a hand on her cheek. The Witch shivered at her touch, turning her head slightly to gaze into the glowing pools that formed this creature’s eyes.

A whisper filled her mind again. “The years may have been kind to you Witch. But your memory seems fuzzy, misinformed. Perhaps a reminder is in order.”

The Banshee placed a palm on her forehead, and suddenly the world was bright.

\--

The Witch could feel herself standing in the sun; it’s warmth something she had not felt for many a year. The village before her was bustling, children running between market stalls as the traders hawked their wares. Her eyes, however, were drawn to the market cross. It had only recently been placed there, a craftsman intricately carving the final pattern work into it. The curves were unlike any she had seen before, and she moved closer to study the stone. The craftsman turned to her, and she saw a thin face looking down at her, a long hand reaching to guide her own across the freshly cut stone, running across the patterns, a warmth filling her core, unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

Images flashed before her now: a meadow, fresh flowers, her hand holding her lover as they lay together under a blanket. Staring into those eyes, each a different colour. Sparks of green and purple magic playing around their fingertips as they kissed.

The scene shifted, the light becoming colder. Now the skies were grey, the square filled with a baying crowd rather than the. The subject of their rage was the hastily erected gallows in front of the market cross. A deep feeling inside of her felt like she was late for something and then she saw the form swinging from the rope. Her lover, her head bent low. She smiled no longer, her bright eyes grown dim, her long warm hands now cold. She moved gently in the breeze, the red hair shifting occasionally when caught by the wind.

For a moment, she felt a deep sadness, as if she was being hollowed out - everything good and happy she had found, crushed in a single moment. But then the space was filled with white-hot rage. It bubbled and coursed through her, green lighting rolling off her hands. There was a flash, cries of fear and pain and then nothing more.

The image shifted again, returning her to a night similar to this one. The village was nothing more than ruins, not quite as weather-beaten as she knew it to be now but still uninhabited for a long time. She ran her fingers over the black marks on the walls, feeling the surface rub away under her touch. Behind her, she could hear the Reaper carrying something heavy over his shoulder, unaffected by the weight but occasionally bouncing it off his back as he walked.

They finally reached the stone cross, it’s craggy surface pitted from years of exposure and the lack of care. The Reaper carefully placed the long canvas bag in front of the monument before carefully slitting open the sack with one of his claws. The figure inside had grown pale, the spell keeping her intact only barely able to prevent the ravages of time. With a sense of sadness, The Witch ran her fingers around the marks on the body’s neck before beginning the ritual. Green tendrils of light seemed to dig into the earth, sparks jumping between the ground and the corpse in front of her.

For one glorious moment, it seemed to have worked. Colour flooded back into the angular face, her open eyes returning to the blue and brown she knew so well. Her hair shone its fiery red once more. She moved her mouth as if trying to speak. But the sound that came out was not human. It was an unearthly, piercing sound that seemed to tear open the void around them and unleashed something dark into the night.

As she screamed, marking her own death, her body started to change. Her cheeks hollowed out, making her look more decayed than she had been before the ritual. Sharp boney spikes burst from her shoulders, forming armour over them. Her burial gown disintegrated on contact with the air, leaving it ripped and torn. Those glorious, beautiful eyes seemed to fade, becoming solid white and emitting an eerie glow. The biggest change was her skin, draining of colour as it turned an ashen grey, dark markings forming around her eyes as she cried out in a mixture of anger and fear.

The Reaper rushed forward and tried to hold her down but with inhuman strength, she threw him through a wall. Still wailing, The Banshee turned on The Witch, gliding across the ground towards where she knelt, frantically trying to find the spell of binding she knew was in her book. She found it just as the wailing Banshee was about to touch her, grey taloned fingers moments from tearing her apart. She spoke the command, trying to bind the spectre to her, forcing her to be obeyed. The Banshee hung in the air for a moment, a mocking imitation of the woman she tried to save, before she resumed her advance, fingers now grasping for The Witch’s face. Part of her wanted to give in, to be given the punishment she deserved. But that part was small and weak and she forced it down.

Instead, with a steely glint in her eyes, The Witch turned the page and started casting again. This time, the Banshee was pushed back, the edge of her form slowly being dragged back into the stone. She repeated the incantation over and over again, watching each time as the spirit was dragged screaming into the stonework. Each time, the stone seemed to become more defined, its ageing reversed until finally, with one final push, she locked The Banshee inside. Where before had been a screaming vision of the other side, there was instead a perfectly preserved stone cross, all the fine details still intact like they had been carved yesterday.

\---

The Witch returned to the present, breathing heavily. At some point she had fallen to her knees, her hands supporting her on the dirt below. Her staff was just out of reach, tossed to one side. She tried desperately to clear her head, to remove the memories and feelings that threatened to overtake her. The names that entered her mind were ghosts of a long forgotten past, people that no longer existed. Angela and Moira were no more than bad dreams, fragments of a past that had no place now.

The Banshee stood impassively over her fallen form. Her arms stayed tucked behind her back as she watched The Witch crawl along the ground to retrieve her staff.

The whisper returned “And now you remember. You remember how I died, Witch. You locked me away, all for the fear of losing control, for fear of those memories coming back to haunt you and for what you know must happen now I am released.”

The Banshee moved closer, leaning down to help her to her feet. She stretched out a hand for her to take and The Witch took it. The hand she clasped was cold but familiar and so she lingered for a moment longer than she had planned. The grey face above her smiled, not a symbol of warmth but of something else.

“I will aid you, Witch of the Wilds. But only because that is what the fates have demanded. I will be there when you fail. You will be defeated and torn away from this realm, mere moments from your victory. And I will scream my cry just before you fall, so all will know what has happened. Then I will keen for you, my dear, as I watch the light leave your eyes and you leave this place to go into death’s realm. And then, my purpose done, I will join you. As was always intended.”

The Banshee twisted her wrist, and the fog began to clear, the Summoner slowly stirring on the ground. Before she vanished into the darkness, the creature gave The Witch one last look.

“Go now Witch, for you have much to do before we meet again. I will join you outside the walls of Adlersbrunn, on All Hallows' Eve.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this work, I love hearing your comments - I'll always try and respond! Alternatively, drop me an email at odeorainfan2150@gmail.com
> 
> Follow me on twitter at https://twitter.com/deorainfan2150 for news on what I'm working on next.
> 
> If you want to throw me a tip, you can find my Ko-Fi at https://ko-fi.com/odeorainfan2150.


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